


Where the Similarities End

by QuitePossiblyInsane



Category: Gorillaz, Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol, Black Hat is having none of his shite, Murdoc makes another deal, One Shot, Swearing, Villainouz, could be convinced to continue if interest is strong enough, murdoc being murdoc, rated teen and up because of the nature of Gorillaz in general
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24816256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuitePossiblyInsane/pseuds/QuitePossiblyInsane
Summary: Murdoc has sold his soul more times than can be excused by even the deepest of desperation. He has manipulated, cheated and killed to get his way, tricking his way out of deal after deal with only minor setbacks to his plans as consequence. It stands to reason, then, that he can make this Black Hat fellow, whom his old prison contacts mentioned, give him what he wants, before getting out of the deal with a little clever manoeuvring.The aging bassist will soon find out why this is a terrible, horrible, altogether rotten idea.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Where the Similarities End

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So, I actually wrote this fic about a year or so ago, but lost the laptop it was stored on before anyone could see it. So this is a rewrite! I'm a big fan of both Gorillaz and Villainous, and technically the two both exist in the Cartoon Network extended universe (plus one of the artists of Villainous, Amy Guillen, is a fan of Gorillaz), so I'm stoked to write this, and more crossovers with these in the future!
> 
> If anyone wants to see more of this particular story, I'm more than willing to keep writing it, but I figured I'd leave a lot of that up to y'all's interest. Now, no more delays! Enjoy the story!

The room was dimly lit by flickering candles, and cloud filtered sunlight streaming in through boarded up windows. The light caught the swirling motes of dust in the air, larger particles occasionally catching candle flames, causing them to momentarily flare brighter.

A large, old, cracked and damaged leather armchair sat just outside of the circle of candles, and the symbols drawn on the floor. These sort of rituals were always more about intention than accuracy, but even so, Murdoc had at least taking the time to stick as close to the instructions as possible, given his ~~terrible~~ _unique_ drawing skills, and shaking, sober hands.

Murdoc did not like sobriety at all. It fit him like a cocktail dress on a pissed off emu, and he cursed the circumstances that had brought him to the point that he was functioning without at least a few shots of whatever liquor was on hand in him. Not that that was what had driven him to yet another deal, though it certainly didn't help matters. No, he had his reasons for summoning the old villain, all of them good, or at least he thought so. So here he was, sat just outside this circle, a creased up piece of paper in hand, with scribbled instructions all over it from one of his former prison pals.

In spite of the total lack of necessity to speak the incantation in any language other than one's own, he still read it out in its poorly written Spanish. His voice sounded like a dying cat being dragged across a cheese grater while drowning, as he wrestled the language into submission, al while lounging on a chair which should have been reupholstered in the 90's. As with the symbols on the floor, intention was more important than accuracy, though his terrible rendition of the summoning ritual might have convinced those powers he was summoning otherwise.

As he read the note aloud, darkness began to pour out of the centre of the circle, vague appendages clawing and stretching and scraping against one another as the squirming, squamous things slowly formed into a humanoid shape. The candles flared, casting the horrifying show in a bright, stark light. Screams and begging in a thousand dead languages seemed to spill from the various mouths, as the thing echoed the last words of it victims, allies and bystanders from throughout the millennia. The ear-shattering sound faded as the figure stabilised, solidifying in a tall, thin shape, stood with dignity in the middle of the circle. He wore a black hat, a monocle, and a dated, but classy suit. Skin was a charred grey, with a texture that defied description, as it seemed to shift from moment to moment, one second disconcertingly smooth and featureless, the next scaled and rough, and a second more resembling something like old vinyl without the shine, all while not changing at all. The candles dimmed, the wax forming puddles as they barely managed to stay lit.

The aging bassist was, for once, silent, well-used voice frozen in his far too parched throat as he stared at the demonic being before him.

A low and bestial growl released from Black Hat, the sound echoing from somewhere in the vicinity of his hat, "You had better have a _very_ good reason for summoning me, Mr. Niccals."

Murdoc perked up, "Oh! Right, yeah. Of course you've heard of me. Sorry about that, mate, the er...ritual thing seems to've dried my throat out a bit, I--"

"I do not care for your excuses, nor am I your 'mate,'" his accent was strange, and clumsy and not quite fit to the human language he had forced onto it for the sake of business, "Now I suggest you stop wasting my time, before you learn what the price for such a thing is."

He paled noticeably, voice stuck for the second time in as many minutes. He cleared his throat noisily, "Er...right. Yeah. Okay. Sorry about that er... _Sssss señor_ Black Hat," he coughed again, stalling slightly, even as the other figure slowly bared his teeth, similar to Murdoc's own, though the two weren't nearly as similar as appearances might suggest, "Alright, so...this is the deal, right? I need a tiny, er...well, insignificant, _really--"_

**"G̶e̶t̵ ̵o̸n̴ W̴̬̊I̵̪̳̗̜̅̆́͝͝T̸̘͈̰̺̯̻͇̠͓̽͒̐͜ͅH̷̨̲̦͚̗̲̙͓̀̾̂̔̔̾͝ ̶̜̗͔̗͈̈́̏̎͐̉ Į̴̛̟̩̯͚̩̰͙̥̺̞͚̥͍͈͆̐̂̇̐́̂̽͊̏̍͂̂͂̔̍̑͘̚̕͘͜͜͝͝T̴̡̜̤̝̜̱̮͕̰͇͎̠͕̹̟͑̓̀̐̃̇̓̑̒͆͘͠͠ͅͅ."**

"I would like to offer you the unique opportunity of making a deal with me," the musician spat out quickly, "You would get sole ownership of my soul, with any er...responsibilities that might come with, not that this would be any sort of problem for you, _ss señor, _and I would get your backing in kicking my wayward little band into line. Nothing too sssssstrenouss, s'or anything, just a bit of er...cleanup, ssso to sspeak." Even sober, the old goth slurred half his words.

The look on Black Hat's face was unreadable for a moment. Then a moment more, before splitting into a terrifying and awful grin, a deep and gravelly cackle resonating through the poorly upkept attic, "Mizter Niccalz," his tone was somewhere between mocking and annoyance, "I am well aware of your reputation among those who deal in souls. You have scammed my subsidiaries thoroughly and without consequence. In fact, the only reason I have not yet seen fit to deal with you myself has been the matter of entertainment you offer in your endless attempts at cunning, and the fact that my idiot followers would never have laid hands on your worthless and shriveled excuse for a soul anyway. Not only are you unworthy of any deal you could afford to make, but you are already so deeply indebted to me, that the only thing keeping you alive in this very instant is your condition as an immortalist, and the fact that I might find amusement in whatever you say to save your pathetic and fragile skin. You only saw fit to summon me because your plan to run off to that disgusting fish-headed hero, Televangelist failed, and you've been on the run ever since. **Y̸o̵u̶ ̴h̵a̶v̷e̸ ̷Ọ̴̋̅͗̆̾̐͑͌̊͠͠Ņ̵̡̛̛̦͓̹͎̰̘͚̯̥̟͔͔̩̣̜̼̺̤̠̗̤̳͖̺͔̈̊̌̒͆̇̍̅͐̅̊͆̑̄̏̉̿̄̃̃͘͝ͅͅẸ̴͎̣̜͓̦͎̰̳͈͎̺̮̻͊ ̸m̴i̷n̵u̵t̶e̶ ̴t̴o̴ ̸g̷i̴v̵e̶ ̶a̷ ̴m̷e̵ ̴a̶ ̴b̴̖͎̮̝̰͖͉̺̘̦͖̗͕͈̲͋l̶̡̼̟̯̲͇̤̍͂̉̋͘o̵͙̭̲̗͍̖̐͋̐͌͋̒̉̈́̈́͊͛̿̈́̚̚͜ơ̷͈̥̞͇̌̿̃͒͂͊̆̑͌̒d̶̟̱͈͙͇̞͐̀̉̉̔͗̂͋͂̉̂͠͝ÿ̴͔̥̻́͐̈̎̓ ̷g̵o̸o̵d̷ ̴r̴e̷a̶s̵o̶n̸ ̷I̴ ̴s̶h̴o̷u̵l̵d̸n̶'̸t̷ ̴m̷a̵k̴e̶ ̸y̵o̴u̸ ̵s̶u̵f̴f̸e̴r̸ ̶i̸n̷ ̵t̶h̶i̷s̶ ̷l̶i̶f̸e̶ ̴a̵n̵d̸ ̵a̴l̷l̴ ̶t̸h̷e̸ ̴n̸e̴x̵t̸.̵"̶**

As the taller male spoke, Murdoc unconsciously scooted his chair back with a loud scrape, leaving trails in the dust on the creaking wood floor. He sat up straighter, attempting to put on the charm where he had so obviously been failing so far, "Well, I mean, scamming your subsid'ries at least managed to, y'know, ssssssort out the bad...well, er...incompetent ones, yeah? If anything I did you a favour ma-- _señor_ Black Hat," he leaned forward a little, steepling calloused and long-nailed fingers, "But hey, call that one a freebie! No need to pay me for that service. It's only one of many I offer," he shot the demon a wink, not cognizant of the obvious revulsion the action inspired, "And er...well, the Evangelist was a mistake, anyway. I know that now. Since my soul is all...tied up in sort of...technicalities, I've got a plan, right?"

The hat demon quirked an antenna-like brow, "Go on." He certainly wasn't more than mildly interested, but it would be all the more amusing to let the man think he was making progress.

Indeed, this seemed to inspire a bit more of the familiar confidence in his tone, "I can get enough souls for you with the next album.... _if_ I can get the other three idiots to cooperate. It's not all that much effort to get my fans to throw themselves at me. With a deal all worked out, we can get the souls transferred over to you, smooth as you like, and in exchange, I get Satan and the Bogeyman and El Mierda and those lot off my arse."

The stare that Black Hat gave him was intense and penetrating. Without moving, reality flickered, and suddenly the demon stood, taller, more unsettling, between Murdoc and the circle, proving that he could have approached any time. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of the musician's face, mismatched eyes wide and bloodshot with lack of sleep and sudden, intense paranoia.

"Mr. Niccals," Black Hat's tone was back to being more careful, and only slightly alien, "I will lend you the use of one of my direct subordinates, for the standard fee. I have no illusions as to how this is going to go. But if you fail to uphold your end of the deal, and keep me entertained in the process, you and anyone you have ever so much as thought fondly of will know suffering beyond anything you are capable of causing. Is that clear?"

Murdoc shrank into the cheap leather chair, attempting to put as much distance as possible between them without moving the furniture, "Rrright. Yeah, alright. Deal."

"Excellent."


End file.
